Hatchling
by Chrissy0Chris
Summary: 25 years after the fall of Snow, another conflict arises, Panem is desperate for a new heroine. A new leader. A new Mockingjay. But will a crumbling Republic and the fatherless son of a madwoman be enough to groom one?  Rating may change. R&R Please
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This story is told from two points of view: from the minds of protagonists Jady Strouch and Pax Odair. The chapters alternate points of view. The first chapter is told from Jady's POV, and the second is told from Pax's, etc. Eventually I'll figure out a clever way to indicate with the chapter titles who narrates which chapter, but until then, here's the clunky Author's Note explanation. **

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><p>I don't feel like myself. It is as though someone placed a camera behind the eyes of a stranger for the Capitol to broadcast. If only I were at home in front of the television… It's cold. Taffeta is not the warmest of materials, but it's the fanciest of what we can afford. I admit, the dress itself is quite flattering. Deep green, with a waist that somehow manages to hide my protruding tummy, yet hug my flaring hips. Mim's trembling fingers did a remarkable job.<p>

She' the only reason why I'm here in the Capitol, to celebrate the life of a man who left the world five years before I came into it. Because he was Mim's son. My Mama's brother. My Uncle Chaff.

Apparently, he was a hero. Twice over. A victor in the Hunger Games, and a martyr in the Revolution. Mim and everyone in the Capitol can't seem to let me forget that. But all I can see when I look at his most recent footage, no matter how hard I try, is a maimed drunkard. I feel a pang of guilt for my thoughts until my eyes flash back up to the monitor as they show clips from one of the last Victory Tours. Uncle Chaff's stump arm is wrapped around the middle of a shaggy-haired man, and his good hand hoists a cup of something, which certainly can't be orange juice. Cackling, they slur obscenities at each other.

"Why on Earth would they show that?" Mama mutters to Mim, who shakes her snow-white head. She replies, "I'm guessing all the shots of him are like this."

Out of respect for the dead, and our family's mortification (which burns the color of cherry-wood through our nut-brown cheeks) most everyone limits their reaction to an endeared smile. _Most_ everyone. A young man with hair the color of sand and sun does little to shield his snicker. His eyes are the color of lemongrass, and the only thing in sight redder than his winter-kissed cheeks are his pouting lips. He is beautiful. He is Pax Odair.

I recognize his face from many of the broadcasts of the Memorial Tours. I can remember at least once or twice a time when he responded to interviewers with a hint of civility, but more in the forefront of my mind is the incident in which Pax flippantly obliged the camera crew to stop asking him to talk about a man he never met. In the year to follow, he tossed a rock at one of the camera men, knocking out both the lens and the man himself. Since, they've re-run his previous footage every year.

The year he threw the rock, Mama clicked her tongue and sighed, "Shame, beautiful boy like that. Just as handsome as his father. Probably end up just like him, too, at this rate. Minus the heroics." Mama then went on about Finnick Odair, the victor from 4, and the night he aired President Snow's dirty laundry out for the whole of Panem, taking other aristocrats along with him. "Almost stepped on my jaw," she said with a quirk of the corner of her mouth. Apparently, the treacherous Snow forced Finnick Odair to sell his body to the highest bidder, a trade that would lead to his own undoing when Finnick's lovers paid him in Capitol secrets.

Part of me feels pity for the fate of the tragic victor. However, the cool smugness on his son's face as he doesn't even attempt to hide the mockery he makes of my family elicits an evil thought: _Laugh at my uncle all you want. At least he wasn't a whore._ I regret the words the instant they roll around in my mind, and avert my eyes. His father is dead. His mother is mad. I figure I can cut him a break.

This ceremony has been painfully long. And I despise the way I look on camera. Not physically, as Mama and Mim have worked wonders on me compared to my usual state. But it is the fact that every time the camera finds me, my expression says that I would rather be having teeth pulled than have the entire nation examining me. With the Memorial Tour interviewers alternating between Mama and Mim, I've managed to avoid the cameras. Until now.

I envy Pax Odair. Even foaming with rage and beaming projectiles, he always looks like he was born for the camera. Even more so, I envy Moira Vara, daughter of Cecelia Vara, another victor lost in the 3rd Quarter Quell. Despite having been a toddler when her mother died, she always seems to have the most to say about Cecelia of anyone in her family, and pushes back her bone-straight auburn hair a million times while saying it. One would think she'd learn what a ponytail is by now. I catch a glimpse of her catching a glimpse of Pax's laughter. Her knee conveniently touches his as the clip of my uncle making an ass of himself becomes suspiciously more amusing to her, so much that her hazel eyes absolutely twinkle. I don't think I'll speak to her at dinner.

I nearly sigh in relief when the screen goes black. I assume that the program is over, stopping at District 11 since none of the none of the victors from 12 died at the hands of the old regime. Everyone begins to applaud, including me, but my eye catches the puzzled look on old Plutarch Heavensbee's face. He is Panem's Secretary of Communications, and he is not applauding. No sooner than my brow creases, the monitor clicks back on.

A face. A shiny, red face. Puffy at the cheeks and chin, yet still not exactly plump. Almost like a corpse doused in rouge and oil. Barely distinguishable between an ugly man and an uglier woman. I go with man, by the length of the hair, and the collar bound with a tie. His hair is black as coal, and almost soaked with whatever slicks it back. What _is_ this thing?

The crowd is stunned silent, even those who this face appears to mean something to—Paylor, Heavensbee, the rest of their cabinet. In an accent I can't place and likely have never heard before, he speaks.

"Good evening, Citizens of Panem. Madame President. My apologies for interrupting your… _festivities._ On the other hand, I suppose I reserve that right, since I _am_ footing the bill."

His face alone causes my stomach to knot, but it's his voice that makes me shift uncomfortably as I ask Mama and Mim with my eyes _What the hell is going on_? They appear just as lost. Whispers erupt amongst the officials. Heavensbee says something to Paylor, something I can't make out, but the woman waves him off, her eyes fixed on the screen.

He continues, "For those among you who do not recognize me, I am Cobart Zane, Chairman of Eutopia." It seems that to most of us, that means absolutely nothing. "Twenty-five years ago, when your little fledgling republic was crawling up on its feet, myself and the Eutopian government—" I can't be the only person in the audience who is unaware of _another_ government. "loaned you a substantial amount of money. And we gave you twenty years, which I believe is a generous allotment of time, wouldn't you agree? Now, simple math, Madame President. If we loaned you the money twenty-five years ago and gave you twenty years to repay it— and the interest— then by how many years is your loan delinquent?"

He pauses, as though expecting an answer. Could he hear President Paylor if she gave him a response? Is the event bugged? He lifts something to his wafer-thin, scarlet lips (a grotesquely deeper shade than Pax's). A tea cup. _He's having tea while he hacks into our broadcast._ Who is this man?

"Five years." I hear the clink of the china. "Madame, you ignore my cordialness. You take it for granted, even. And that simply will not do. So, I do believe we've reach a fork with three roads. Panem pays its debt within two months' time. Now, before you protest, do hear out options two and three: You agree peacefully to the annexation of Panem as a colony of the Nation of Eutopia."

'Annexation' is not a word I hear in every day conversation, but I'm pretty sure I know what it means. And it sends needles up my spine.

"Option number three: We declare war."

As the word escapes his lips, the crowd is in an uproar.

"You have two months to the hour to reach a decision, President Paylor. This is one deadline you won't want to miss."

And just like that, the talking face disappears.

My eyes scan the row. Mama and Mim wring each others' hands. Without trying, my eyes find Moira Vara. Her hand is clasped dramatically (yes, even given the circumstances) over her mouth. Beside her, Pax Odair still stares blankly at the blackened screen. The rosiness has drained from his cheeks, making his lips appear even more blushed as they hang open dumb in disbelief. The only logical thought I can process is this: _So that's what it takes to wipe the smirk from his pretty face. _


	2. Chapter 2

My name is Pax Odair. "Pax" means "peace" in a language spoken ages and ages ago. The name was given to me by a friend of my parents. A fellow rebel. A scholarly type by the name of Beetee. He is long dead, just like the man who gave me my last name. Peace. What my father fought for. What he died for. The time I was born into. _Peace._

I do not conceal my laughter at this on the train home, which earns me distrusting looks from the attendants. They, like the rest of Panem, think I am insane, like my mother. Yet, few would refuse a night with me. Perhaps it's the _danger_ that attracts them in the first place. As if the nation has gone through withdrawal, and craves what it has been missing for the last quarter-century. _Well_, I think to myself, _we'll be fat full of it soon enough._

For the first time, I take my lunch in the dining car. The trip up to the Capitol was spent inside my compartment, and I've only left it now because I am sick of being cramped. I'm not the biggest people person, and the families of the dead seem to have made it a…thing for us to commune. And the Capitol has made it a thing to record each and every moment of it. I prefer to be left out of as much of the footage as I can. I'm here for one reason and one reason only: to honor my father. And with my mother…indisposed, the duty is solely mine.

I didn't mind the cameras as much when I was younger. I relished the attention, even. As if I didn't get enough being an only child. But after my mother's breakdown, it felt less like I was being interviewed and more like I was being examined. It was no coincidence that the crews came more frequently after the news spread about my mother's unraveling. I am fatherless and my mother is mad. How long before I unravel as well? Well, they wanted to see me go mad, so I gave them mad.

I was arrested immediately the day I threw the rock at the cameraman. I spent several nights in holding with drunkards who smelled like urine and chum. That was more of a punishment than the damages I was made to reimburse. My parentage has left me with more than enough money and pull to smooth over most transgressions. It has also rendered me the prime target of the Memorial Tour press coverage… I am son of not one, but _two_ victors, one of which, a martyr. The only legacy that could hope to compete would be the Mockingjay's brood, but a house fire claimed the lives of her husband and children, and nobody has heard from Katniss Mellark since. An ironic fate for the girl who was on fire. If they'd lived past the age where children suddenly stop being boring, the media would be eating them up right now.

My coffee is blacker than pitch today. I can nearly taste the bitterness, just looking at it. I slosh some cream into it, and then a sugar cube. And then another, and another. One more for good measure. After the first few sips, I'm feeling in slightly higher spirits. I should be, anyhow. I'm on my way home. As long as I can keep up this streak of avoiding interaction, I'll be just fine.

People come and go as I eat my lunch of ham, wild rice and vegetables. A few, I know by name. The gruesome woman with the vicious, gold fangs— Enobaria, the victor of District 2. She flashes me a… smile? A smirk? A sneer? I'm not sure. Even a tickle from her would feel malicious. She continues on her way. The elderly parents of Cashmere and Gloss, dead victors from 1, quietly occupy a table in the far corner of the dining car. We've shared the space for going on half an hour and have yet to make eye contact. I don't particularly mind.

As I'm finishing off my slab of ham, another pair enters. A round, brown girl, probably around my age. On her arm, a shriveled old woman. Ancient, with stark white plaits. They are kin to Chaff from 11. The girl seats the old woman, just behind the couple from District 1, and crosses. To my side. To me. I look up at her, but her eyes are fixed on the fruit dish in the center of the table.

"Is this for you?" she asks. Her voice carries the subtle twang of her district's accent.

"The whole thing?" I reply.

Her dark eyes cut up at me abruptly. My voice must have taken on an offensive tone without my knowing it. It does that sometimes.

"Well, I thought I'd just ask." Her voice has risen in pitch. "You know, since you seem to be the only one with a fruit bowl on your table. I guess we can't all be VIP…"

The crosses back over to her old companion, who I assume is her grandmother. As she takes her seat, the girl mumbles something like, "Looks peffy anyway."

I try to recall whether I've done something to offend her. It's likely. It happens quite often.

"What's her problem?"

The voice that calls my attention away from the scowling District 11 girl belongs to Moira Vara. The redhead with the pretty, angular face, who insists on touching me as often as humanly possible. I made it a point to remember her name.

"Couldn't tell you," I shrug, stabbing my fork into the last of my lunch.

I can feel her eyes on my face, almost like heat radiates from her gaze. I glance up and catch her lips curling into a smile. She's forward, this one. And persistent. I can't make up my mind how I feel about that just yet.

"Did you have a good stay?" she asks, examining a bunch of grapes before plucking one and popping it into her mouth.

"The food was good," I reply flatly. She takes this as a joke, giggling the way women do when they want a man to invite them home. Bringing her back to my mother's home in 4's Victor Village would be out of the question. But either of our compartments would do.

Moira leans across the table and presses, almost conspiratorially, "So, what do you make of…this?" She speaks as though this is the question she's been dying to ask me since we met.

Meanwhile, all I come up with is, "What?"

"What happened last night, during the broadcast," she blinks.

"That…" I sigh, "Was quite a show." My reply is not a front. The sheer shock of it arrested me the night before, but by the time I woke up this morning, it had all become…removed. Like a story you overhear in the town square

"I just… can't believe it," she continues with a shake of her head, "Another country? That's enough to wrap your head around—"

"Makes you wonder what else they're hiding from us."

Her eyes widen, exaggeratedly so.

"Should you be talking like this?" she whispers. Nobody has heard us that I can tell. Not that it makes any difference to me.

Staring into my drained coffee cup, I quote one of Paylor's most overused slogans, "The era of fear has ended." I do nothing to hide irony in my voice. I have officially frightened Moira Vara. I wonder if she still finds the danger sexy.

She asks, "We're stopping at your district soon, right?"

I take that as no.

"In less than two hours, yes."

"And I assume you have a telephone?"

I look up to find her eyes aren't nearly as wide, and pout is added to lips that didn't have quite so much just a moment ago.

"Yes."

Slowly, a smile spreads across her face. She rises from the table, pushing back her hair as it drapes into her face.

"Use it to stay in touch?"

Moira does not await her answer. Instead, she saunters away. Men who have the invitation to call Moira Vara do not decline. At least, they haven't. Until now. What can we offer one another from across a telephone line? I have no interest in making new friends. What we have to offer one another can surely be found within our respective districts.

I feel another pair of eyes. The girl from 11. Her name still escapes me, if I ever even knew it. Her gaze is heated as well. Not like Moira's coy smolder. Contempt. Envy, maybe. Her clothes aren't of particularly high quality. She is a relative of Chaff, but not his daughter. She would not have seen any of his money. What little he didn't drink away, that is.

The look in her eyes is one I rarely see, if ever. I'm sure more people hate me than I can count. Between my wealth, my temper and my ever-growing aversion for socializing, I cannot find a way to blame them. But they never allow their hatred to manifest. No, no. I am the son of Finnick and Annie Odair: The victors of District 4, whose perseverance filled bellies for two years. The victors who would later become better known as the dead hero and the poor, mad widow. They remember this and their hatred funnels into pity.

I would rather be bludgeoned than coddled.

But this girl from 11… Surely, she, like the rest of Panem, knows my family history. But my parents put no food on her table. She owes them nothing, and me just as much. Her distaste for me is unfiltered. Unchecked.

I think I respect her.


End file.
